


Covet

by cjmarlowe



Category: Oz - L. Frank Baum
Genre: Fantasy, Masturbation, Other, foot fetish/shoe fetish, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Good witch' is a comparative title—she doesn't need to be <em>that</em> good to earn it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Covet

If Glinda had been just a slightly less good witch, Dorothy might have had to find a different way home. 

The others, the witches of Oz, the sorceresses and the practitioners and the wizard himself, might have known that the silver shoes possessed power, in their vague and inadequate ways, but Glinda was the only one who knew just how much power they possessed. She was the only one who had long imagined not just what she could do with them but what they would feel like when she possessed them, when she slipped them on.

Imagined, but knew that she could never, not ever, let it happen.

Dorothy from Kansas and her motley assemblage passed through her country quickly, not a fortuitous event but because Glinda _made_ them pass quickly, mere hours between the moment Dorothy arrived with the silver shoes carelessly on her feet to the moment they carried her back across the desert. 

Glinda put a gentle smile on her prettiest face and told Dorothy but one secret of the silver shoes—that they could carry her home. She put no voice to the fact that in doing so they would lose themselves forever. For if Glinda hadn't pushed them all onward while her will was still strong, she wasn't sure what she might have done, and it was best for everyone that the silver shoes were now beyond the reach of anyone. 

Even if she were not quite good enough not to just _take_ them, steal them, she wouldn't have snatched them right off the feet of a poor, lost, young girl. Or at least, she told herself that.

It's only now, in the aftermath of her hard-fought decision, she lets herself envision herself doing just that, sitting Dorothy down in a golden throne and holding her ankle and touching them for the first time, feeling the scratch against her palm, the gritty sole, the shoes made for power and not beauty no matter how brightly their silver shone.

No one person should have that much power. That's the intellectual response, the knowledge she had been clinging to as she followed Dorothy's journey, but it's an emotional problem. Knowing she should not have the power and wanting it aren't mutually exclusive. And though she has done the best thing for everyone, the only thing that's right, that doesn't mean she's quite ready to let go.

Glinda is not going to stop wanting it just because it's gone. If anything, she wants it more. She wants _them_ more. The power is not separable from the shoes; they're one, they're the same. They have for too long been entwined in her mind and her aspirations and her imagination.

Later, when her guests are all gone, she's alone in her tower again. Later, she's lying on top of silk sheets with her fingers, silver tipped, tracing over her skin. Later, she imagines what it would have felt like to put them on. Not to just see them or even possess them but to _wear_ them, to slip them onto her feet and have them fit exactly right, hug the curve of her arch and bend around her toes and send tendrils of power along her nerves, throughout her body. 

There is nothing she or anyone else possesses that compares, and nothing that exists that could ever be quite the same no matter how powerful it might be, so she can only imagine the experience now. She can only close her eyes and believe that she feels them slipping onto her, sending a tingle of energy up her body, toes to groin to breasts to the base of her skull.

Glinda took no partners, she took no lovers. She hadn't for a very long time. It would be fair to no one, that they could never live up to the magic. For the good of Oz, and the good of her heart, tonight she let the only love she might ever have go. 

But while the memory of it is still fresh, while they still feel this close, she can imagine. She can imagine a life in which Dorothy got in the balloon and left the shoes behind, in which they found their way to her another way, gifted to her in a silver box with a silver bow. In which she chose to slip them on her feet, damn the consequences, and didn't take them off for anything.

Her silver-tipped fingers creep down her body, smooth over her flat belly, up the insides of her spread thighs. She kicks her feet up into the air, flat on her back, and grabs hold of this fleeting moment in both fists. Glinda is a witch, a _good_ witch. A bit of this, a bit of that, and a wave of her fingertips and the illusion is complete. Her feet are covered in silver from toe to heel, and her imagination and hand can supply the surge of power that would go with them.

Sometimes the strength of power is in choosing _not_ to use it.

Her skin tingles with the anticipation, her eyes on her feet, foot, whatever is visible at any given moment as she moves her fingers faster but never any less gracefully between her legs. This isn't entirely about the release but about the build, the growing pool of energy that has the potential to become something.

She can still transform it into power in a myriad ways, and she looks at the illusory shoes, glittering in the dim bedroom light, and rubs herself harder. And faster. And more precisely. And harder. As close to the real thing as she can get.

This, her only partner, her only lover now. And not even the real thing, but a pale imitation.

Orgasm courses through her like the lines of power she envisioned, emanating from its greatest source. She closes her eyes and in her mind it's everything she ever wanted.

And if it fades a few moments later, lingering only in her thighs and her toes and the base of her skull, at least she had that one moment. The shoes are lost by now over the wide and deadly desert, but she'll remember it as it never was, and content herself with that instead of what might have been.


End file.
